Pain
by Potikanda
Summary: Warning: TRIGGERS. Suicide and depression. I beg you not to read if these things trigger you AT ALL. This is a second attempt at posting, as I was terrified to keep it up before. Blaine is gone; Kurt follows.


**Hello all. Okay, quick note, before we get started. Anyone with triggers about suicide, please don't read this. I was in a really dark place when I wrote this. It's from Kurt's perspective, and not exactly the lightest, fluffiest thing I've ever written. PLEASE BE AWARE. Also: Character Death.**

**Also. This is not something I'm planning on doing, so PLEASE DO NOT CALL LAW ENFORCEMENT ON ME. I won't lie and tell you I haven't thought about it. But I am far too much of a coward to take the easy way out. So instead, I wrote a fic that made me cry profusely from the beginning to the end. Be warned, if you read this, you will need tissues. I'm sorry you guys. I'm just, really... REALLY sorry. **

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><p>Here I am. Alone again. Locked in my small little apartment that I used to share. Used to share, with <em>him<em>.

Rachel keeps bugging me to go out. I can't. Maybe tomorrow. Not today. Today is too soon. Maybe tomorrow is too soon, too. I can't be sure. Not until it's here.

Dad called today. Wanted to know how _he_ was. I couldn't tell him. Couldn't tell him that _he_ and I were no more. Couldn't tell him that _he_ was gone. Gone for good. That nothing I could ever say or do could bring _him_ back to me. Couldn't tell him I am an idiot.

Because I am, you know. A world-class idiot. A fool. Mental. Completely oblivious to my surroundings. At least, I was when I was with _him_. I told my Dad I loved him though. Before I said goodbye.

I'm looking around, staring blankly at the books on the shelf. At the television mounted on the wall. _He_ mounted it there. _His_ hands lovingly placed the unit against the wall, understanding instinctively that I would never have been able to do it myself. _He_ told me where to screw it in to the wall. _He _showed me how, and now _he's_ gone.

My heart constricts in my chest as I look around. I run my fingers through my hair, wondering what to do with myself. I look out the balcony doors to the city below, wrapping my arms around my waist, trying to hold myself together. I can feel my heart racing, pounding, the blood shooting through my body at speeds NASCAR never dreamed of.

I stifle a sob. The tears that spring to my eyes as I thought about _him_ seem blessed. A release. A way to liberate me from the straining feeling that encompasses my being. But as the tears slip down my cheeks, the release I'm looking for doesn't come.

My heart constricts further, squeezing so hard I feel like I'm going to pass out. My knees buckle, and I land in the plush carpet that _he_ and I picked out last autumn. My head bangs off the glass door to the balcony, but I don't care. How could I care? I don't feel anything but the overwhelming pain inside.

The tears flow, obstructing my view, and I lay on my side. It hurts to breathe. My head is pounding. The floor is vibrating. My cell phone is slowly skittering across the floor, but I couldn't be bothered to pick it up. I don't care who it is. Unless it's _him._

My eyes fly open in a heartbeat. Maybe it's all been a dream! I look towards my phone, but _his_ name isn't there. It's Dad. Calling again. I should answer. But I don't have the heart to.

The vibrating stops. My tears keep flowing. My head really hurts. My arm hurts where I'm laying on it too, but I can't be bothered to move. The sobs that are wracking my body are more than I can handle, moving is not an option right now. Maybe later. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never.

The vibrations have started up again. My eyes flick to the cell, taking in Finn's number. No. I don't want to talk to him either right now. I'm busy. I'll call him back later.

The world tilts suddenly, and I feel like I'm falling. How can I be falling if I'm laying down? I close my eyes, feeling a few more tears squeeze out as I try to calm my breathing. My heart is slowing. My face is itchy from the dried tear tracks. I almost want to reach up and wipe them away. Almost. But I can't. Because I really don't care.

My head _really_ hurts now. My eyes open and I see red. What? Why can I see red? Lifting my arm, I groan. It hurts to move after such a long time of being immobile. I wipe my eyes. My hand comes back with blood on it. I'm confused.

I don't remember hurting myself. I remember thinking about it. I remember considering it as I lay on my bed, waiting for _him._ Even though I knew he would never come. But I don't remember _doing_ it. I push myself up into a sitting position.

The world tilts again, and bile rises in my throat. My eyes roll, and I vomit, everywhere. I lean to the side, even though I've already covered myself, heaving up the water I drank earlier. Luckily, it was only water and bile and bits of something else unmentionable. I couldn't have forced anything else down my throat if I'd tried.

The heaving leaves me shaking. I lay back down, trying to avoid the mess I made. The mess I made on the plush, deep carpet. I turn my head away, ignoring it, and the phone, which has begun vibrating again.

I rest my head against the floor, the soft cushioning preventing me from raising my head up and banging it a few times on the floor. Anything to stop this headache from pounding through my skull. The crying hasn't stopped, but it's slowed down some. The roar of the pounding in my ears makes my head hurt even worse. I crack my eyes open a touch, and spy the bottle of Advil resting on the coffee table.

I take a deep breath, marshalling my strength. I manage to get my hands underneath my body, and I lift carefully. There is blood on my carpet, mixed with tears and vomit. I couldn't care less. I slowly crawl my way past the blood, tears and vomit, catching the Advil bottle as I sag against the couch.

Damn these child-proof containers. My hands are shaking really hard, as I try to push the cap off. Finally, it comes free and I squint as I attempt to count how many Advil are left in the bottle.

Ten. Ten Advil left to soothe my aching head. Would ten Advil be enough to put me out of my misery permanently? I consider it. Looking back into the bottle, I determine ten would not be enough. I shake out two, though, which is twice the amount recommended. My head _really_ hurts.

I look up towards the kitchen. The kitchen where so much of our time together was spent. My time with _him_. My eyes fill again as I remember baking cookies. _His_ hair was doused in flour. The curls white instead of deep brown. I remember the smile in _his_ eyes, the hazel and honey and gold reflecting the light and making _his_ eyes _sparkle_.

A sob rips through my throat again, totally unexpected, and startles me with how animalistic it sounds. I nearly scare myself into silence again, as I make for the kitchen. My knees hurt as I move from plush carpet to kitchen hardwood. Standing up would involve far too much effort.

I reach the counter, and pause. The sink is too far away. To get there I would have to stand. My legs won't allow it. I'm stuck. The tears slide quickly down my face now. Jesus, my head hurts.

I have to try. That's what _he_ would have wanted, isn't it? For me to have courage? Courage to face the unknown. Courage to face life without _him_. Courage to raise myself up and get _a fucking drink of water_.

I brace myself. My head beats furiously inside my skull, the whooshing of fluid in my ears making me deaf to everything around me. But I tuck my legs under my body and lift. I fall. Once, and then twice. My tears are still coming; I don't think they'll ever stop.

I finally brace myself properly, and am able to stand. I'm leaning heavily against the counter, but it still counts. The dizziness and nausea threaten to overwhelm me again, and my stomach tries to heave a few more times. God, I wish _he_ were here. I wouldn't feel so alone then. I grab a cup and slide it under the running water. I watch, confused, as blood drains away with the water flowing down the drain. Blood? On my hands?

Oh yeah. I wiped my eyes. I place the cup back down on the counter, and run my hand over my face. I wince when I feel my fingertip run over a large cut just under my hairline. I'm really confused now. I really don't remember hurting myself. I remember being in the bathroom, holding on to _his_ razor. Pulling the blade out, and simply looking at it. Considering.

But I couldn't. I'd dropped the razor blade in the garbage. Without cutting myself. I check my wrists to be sure. Yes, they are pale, and whole, and no scar to mark them except the one tiny burn mark I got baking cookies for _him_ in junior year.

So where did the cut come from? My head is still spinning, booming like a drum at one of McKinley's football games. I can feel the tension in my back too. It hurts almost as bad as getting shoved into a locker. That hasn't happened in years though. I wince again as I run my fingers over the spot again. My legs are shaking, and threaten to buckle under me again.

I slide down to the floor once more, reaching up and grasping the cup firmly, pulling it down to me. I put one of the Advil's on my tongue, but my tongue is dry. I can't force the pill to the back of my throat. I take it back out and take a sip of water. I swish the water around a bit, trying to wet my tongue and mouth. I swallow, the taste of the bile making my stomach heave again, but I'm determined. I need these painkillers. Anything to make the drumming stop.

I try putting the pill on my tongue again, and this time I can get it to the back of my throat. I take a small swallow of water, but I choke, and the water ends up all over me. The pill mocks me, sitting on my tongue. Thank God for the person who invented Gel Caps.

I take another drink, finally able to force the pill down my throat. I lean my head back against the counter, resting. Thinking. About _him_. How if _he_ were here I wouldn't have to be doing this alone. _He_ would be taking care of me. Caressing me. Holding me tight. Tears slip down my cheeks once more, my eyes looking up at the ceiling, wondering how long I can continue to do this.

How long do I hold on after _he's_ gone? How long until I get to see _him _again? Because it's inevitable, you know. _He_ and I were _meant_ to be together. Be it here, or there, or anywhere. I love _him_. And I _know_ _he_ loves me, too.

Where is that knocking coming from? I look around, perplexed that there is a banging coming from somewhere in my apartment. My cheeks still have tear tracks and I scrub at them with a sleeve. Not something I would normally do, but it's been an upsetting day.

That's actually an understatement. It's been an upsetting week. I ignore the knocking in favour of just closing my eyes. It's easier this way. Although, the knocking is getting louder. More insistent. I crack my eye open a bit, listening as worried voices come through under the door. So someone is out there. Waiting for me to answer. Well tough. I don't need anyone else's shit right now. I'm dealing with enough on my own.

"Kurt?"

Shit. There is only one diva with that voice and she will not leave me alone. Rachel. Maybe if I stay silent. If she doesn't know I'm here, maybe she'll go away.

"Kurt, I know you're in there. Will you answer the door, please?" No Rachel, I will not answer the fucking door because I can't get off this fucking floor and I don't want to fucking see you. My lips remain still, and I'm breathing as quietly as possible. My head still hurts, and I realise I'm still clutching one of the Advil's in my hand. I raise it to my lips and chug it down with a swig of water, my gulping sounding unnaturally loud in the dim quiet of my kitchen.

"Kurt! I heard that! If you don't open this door, so help me, I'm going to…" She lets herself trail off threateningly, but really, Rachel doesn't have a clue. She's about as threatening right now as a four-week-old kitten. Because I simply don't care.

The banging resumes on the door, but my mind simply shuts it out. If I don't hear it, it doesn't exist, right? The drug dealer from down the hall sticks his head out his door, yelling at Rachel to shut the hell up. Oh, no he didn't! _I_ am the only one who tells Rachel Fucking Berry to shut the hell up. I scramble to my feet, swaying slightly as the nausea takes over again. I don't care.

I walk to the door and unlock it. I open it, hoping for a fleeting moment it's not Rachel in the hallway, but _him_. But there she is, standing right there and gasping as she looks at me. Yeah. I'm not in the best condition of my life right now Rachel. You can wipe the surprise off your face now.

"Shut up." I tell the dealer. For the first time in his life, he actually listens to me. Usually he would be making fag jokes or throwing a hissy fit about how us fags have ruined the neighbourhood. I guess the cut on my head looks that ghastly, because he closes the door carefully behind him as I watch. Stupid fuck.

"What do you want, Rachel?" My head is pounding again. It feels like someone is taking a tire iron to my skull, and the lights in the hallway are making it worse. I just want to go back into my apartment where it's dark.

Rachel pushes past me, and I roll my eyes, heedless of the fact that it hurts profusely to do so. I close the door and make my way over to the couch. Collapsing on it, I take in the sight of the vomit on the carpet again. I really should have cleaned that up. But I don't care.

Rachel eyes the wet patch of the carpet warily. Not that I can blame her. It could be anything, really. Since I don't care.

"Kurt." Rachel looks at me with those big brown eyes and all I can remember is the Rachel Berry House Party Extravaganza disaster. My eyes fill with tears. _He_ had been there. _He_ had kissed Rachel. _He_ had sung that stupid song with her, bouncing all around. My eyes fill with tears again, and Rachel stops. Whatever she had been about to say is stuck, as she takes in my face. Quit looking at me like that, I want to say.

"Quit looking at me like that," I actually am able to mumble. Rachel starts, and she sits down close to me on the couch. Her hand finds mine, and we sit like that for a while. I have no idea how long, but it's nice. Actually, really nice. I didn't realise being alone was part of my problem. In _this_ apartment. With _his_ things strewn about.

"Oh, Kurt," Rachel looks me straight in the eyes, and her eyes begin overflowing with tears too. "I am _so_ sorry," She sobs softly, and I wonder how this got turned around. Because now I'm holding her, shushing her and whispering that everything is going to be okay. Because, honestly? It's not.

_He_ will never be coming home. And Rachel knows this. I know it too. And it hurts. So we cry. We cry together and surely it's worse f there are two people crying but it doesn't feel worse, it almost feels better. Like part of the weight has been lifted. Like Rachel is sharing my burden. My fears. My pain.

The pain in my head is slowly receding. My head continues to throb, but I don't care. Rachel finally stops blabbering and wipes her eyes, going to the bathroom. She brings back a wet cloth and a few Band-Aids. I let her patch me up, still unsure why my head was cut open in the first place.

Rachel finally figures it out, pointing out the long streak of blood that is smeared on the balcony door. I hit my head when I fell. Makes sense, I guess.

The numbness is spreading now. Seeping over my limbs. Making me lethargic. I can't feel my toes, and tell Rachel so. Her eyes widen as she looks at me. She finds the bottle of Advil on the floor, asking me repeatedly how many I've taken. I tell her two, because my head hurt, but I don't think she believes me.

If I'm being truthful, I don't much believe me either. I may not remember having taken a bunch of pills, but that might be the reason for the numbness that is quickly taking over my body. I feel light; made of air. Like a stiff breeze will pick me up and float me away from everything.

I hear a scream. Glad to know Rachel can still scare the hell out of a banshee. I can't feel myself anymore. My mind is floating. I don't care that Rachel is on the phone. Talking to someone. I don't know who. My eyes have rolled back in my head. The pretty colours that dance on my retinas captivate and beguile me. I'm so numb.

The blessed relief has finally found me. I don't care anymore. I'll be with _him_ again soon enough. After all, once I'm dead, I can be back with everyone I love. My mother, my grandmother, and _Him._

_Blaine. _

_I love you._

_I'm coming._

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><p><strong>I'm sorry. I'm just... so sorry. <strong>


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